


Memory

by dragonQuill907



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonQuill907/pseuds/dragonQuill907
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after Sherlock has returned to London, he receives a serious head injury while on a case and suffers amnesia. The last thing he remembers? Meeting John Watson. Post-Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory

You’re a bloody idiot, Sherlock Holmes.  
You lie on the bed, unmoving. Your dark, curling hair is partly obscured by the white bandages wrapped around your head. Dark bruises on your ribs and collarbone are hidden by a hospital gown. The ones on your thin arms are visible, though, and they’ve started healing from the middle, yellowing before returning to the smooth white it once was.   
Your eyes flick under your eyelids as if you’re trying to deduce what you see behind them. I wonder what it is you’re thinking about. You’re always thinking. IV’s are attached to your hands, transferring more nutrients in a day than I think you would normally eat in a week. Every so often, a long finger twitches, managing to elevate my heartbeat. My eyes widen, and I lean forward, hoping to see those piercing eyes stare back at me. I don’t think of it as I do it at first, but when Mycroft sits on the other side of the bed and gives me that pitying look when your pinky finger clenches, I know how I must look to everyone that stops by. Desperate. Worried sick. Sleep-deprived.   
I am, though. I am.  
Of course I’m asleep when you wake. Any other way would be too easy or you, Sherlock Holmes.  
“What am I doing here?” your familiar baritone asks.   
Your eyes are grey in the light of the fluorescent bulbs, and they dart around the room quickly. I know you’re taking in all sorts of information, probably who those flowers on the windowsill are from. It was Mrs. Hudson. But I don’t need to tell you that.  
“Sherlock,” I breathe. “Are you all right? Are you in pain? You can adjust the morphine tap if you need to. Molly visited, and Mycroft was here earlier, but-”  
“What. Am. I. Doing. Here?”  
“I- Sherlock- You…” I stutter, blinking. “You were a bloody idiot again, as always, every time. Ran after a suicide bomber. What do suicide bombers do, Sherlock? You- it- the bomb went off. You were too close. I told you, Sherlock, I bloody told you to be careful, but did you listen?” Anger swells to replace the relief that flooded through me at the sound of your voice after two weeks. “Come on, then. Have to press the call button so the nurses know you’re awake.”  
“Why are you here?”  
“Because you are.”  
“No,” you snap, and start talking a mile a minute. “That is not an acceptable answer. You’re John Watson. Completely unremarkable. I met you at Bart’s hospital yesterday. Yes, an army doctor, as I had observed, but you’re not my doctor. No, if you were any excuse for a professional, you’d never be caught sleeping at a patient’s bedside. Your pupils dilate when you look at me, and I can practically hear your pulse quicken, which suggests sexual attraction, although I have no recollection of anything happening between us beside our brief encounter in the lab. Not my doctor, then, nor my lover, or even a friend, although you speak to me as one, as if you’ve known me for years when clearly you haven’t, as I have just met you earlier today. So, John Watson, why are you here?”  
I feel my jaw drop open. A pretty young nurse walks in the room at that moment, saving me from having to answer right away.  
“Mr. Holmes,” she says, smiling, writing down his vitals. “I see you’ve woken up. How are you feeling? Any pain?”  
“I’m fine. When can I leave? I must get back to my flat.”  
“Not for another few weeks, Mr. Holmes. A few of your ribs were broken, and we’ve been told you have a rather… active lifestyle.” She hesitates, glancing up from her clipboard. “Your brother has suggested keeping an eye on you until they’re mostly healed. The doctor will be around shortly to ask you some questions.”  
“Unacceptable. You cannot keep me here. I can call New Scotland Yard. I can have you arrested. And don’t think I can’t escape on my own. Are you listening?”  
But the nurse is already leaving the room, completely ignoring you and nodding at me as she goes. “Call again if he starts getting into too much trouble, Dr. Watson.”  
I nod absently back to her. “Did you- delete me… or something?”  
“What’s there to delete? I’ve met you once. We’re going to look at a flat today. Baker Street. Really, John, don’t you remember?”  
I don’t answer. I’m grateful. I don’t know what I would say if I opened my mouth. I rub my face, taking a deep breath. Everything feels wrong. You should remember me, Sherlock. But you don’t, and I don’t know why. We were fine yesterday. Everything was fine. There was no opportunity between now and then for me to disappoint you so horribly and so thoroughly that you would toss all knowledge of my existence. Had there been?  
“Sherlock,” I start uncertainly. “If you didn’t delete me, then do you not remember me?”  
You close your eyes, probably searching in your mind palace for something. A reminder? A sliver of John Watson? You have to find something. Anything.  
“It doesn’t make sense. You’re here, at my bedside, and you haven’t even showered in over two days – in fact, you’ve barely left the hospital. I know you, but not well enough or you to stay in the same chair for over twenty-four hours. You can’t be my friend; impossible. I don’t have friends.”  
“Sherlock.”  
“Hmm?”  
“What’s the last thing you remember?”  
Your eyes snap open, and they get that far-away look that means you’re looking for your mistake. “I’m… I just remember… I left the morgue. You and I are looking at a flat on Baker Street today. At seven.”  
“The last thing, Sherlock.”  
“I got in a taxi and headed home, then nothing. My Mind Palace seems… crumbly. The foundation is weak. It’s standing on pillars of salt, John. Nothing is right.”   
I drop my head into my hands. Too much. It’s too much. I can’t deal with this now. I stand abruptly, turning to the door.  
“Where are you going?”  
“I just… I’m sure you can figure it out, Sherlock, I am. But I’m- I have to- Sherlock...”  
“Yes, John,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Go.”  
I nod curtly and step into the hallway. I walk until I hit a corner and stop, sliding down the eggshell wall so I rest on the floor, my legs folded underneath me. The hall is mostly empty, but a few nurses pass me by. They give me strange looks, but I don’t notice them over the thoughts in my head. I don’t care what they see. I don’t care. I don’t care.  
~*~  
You don't remember anything. It's gone. Just... wiped away. The cases, our lives, us.  
That first day after we met, that was quite possibly the best day of my life until that point. You were ridiculous, striding around London with that coat flowing about like a cape. But you were interesting, and I was so alone. Then the dinner at Angelo's, when I tried to flirt with you but you didn't have the faintest interest in me. In my defense, you said girlfriends weren't really your area. Still aren't, come to think of it. I should know. That bloody taxi chase that almost killed me, and I left my cane at Angelo's. And you were a stupid bloody idiot and got into that cab with a man you knew was a serial murderer. I had to race after your stupid arse before you got yourself killed. I shot him. I killed a man for you. But you don't remember any of that. Of course not.  
And we had to solve the Blind Banker case for that wanker Sebastian. I don't know if you saw it, but I hated him. I hated how he talked to you, how he treated you like a commodity, something he could sell and buy back within two minutes. I saw you flinch. It was barely noticeable, but I saw it anyway. I wanted to jump over the desk and throttle the posh idiot. I wanted to stroke your hair and make you forget about him. Who am I kidding? You almost definitely noticed. You're Sherlock Holmes. We got kidnapped on that one, Sarah and I. They thought I was you. They buggered up pretty bad with that one, right? No one could compare to you. So clever. Always so amazingly clever. You posh bastard. Don’t leave me alone with these memories.  
Moriarty. Where do I start on Moriarty? The mad bastard played all these games with you. He made you dance. He watched you solve every puzzle he threw your way. He was consumed by you, Sherlock, almost as much as I was. You were the puppet, and he held the strings, Sherlock. He controlled you. You gave him every ounce of your attention. I was jealous. I was bloody jealous of a psychopath. And at the pool... the bomb. I tried to get you to run. I did. I wanted you away from there, away from him. I wanted you out of danger, but that wasn't part of his plan. He said he'd burn the heart out of you, Sherlock, and you said you didn't have one, but that's not true, it's never been true, and everyone who's ever told you that is wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong –   
Breathe, Watson. Don’t think about him. You’ll trigger something. Don’t particularly want to have a panic attack in the middle of the hallway, no?  
We met the Woman. Do you remember her, I wonder? She seemed to be the only woman you were interested in. The only person, actually. She was obviously interested in you, at least. That's why I hated her like I did, so unreasonably. I was so disgustingly jealous. I counted her text messages, for Christ's sake. And when she was killed by terrorists, I told you she relocated to America. You took her phone. I was going to tell you that night, but the damn phone stopped me. You'd never expressed that much interest in anyone other than a serial killer. The phone – that was sentiment, Sherlock, a chemical defect. That damned phone.  
We went to Baskerville with Henry Knight, and you saw the hound, you said, even though it made no sense. Your hands were shaking, and I wanted to hold them until they stilled and stroke your hair – because really, what man has hair that perfect? – and calm you down. You said you didn’t have friends, and I left you even though I shouldn’t have. You were scared and thought you were alone, but you were never alone, Sherlock, you were never alone. Not ever, as long as I live, will you be alone. You drugged me, and I thought I was going to die in that lab. When you got me out of that cage, it took everything I had not to throw my arms around your neck and just hold you for a while. Luckily for us, I was more than a little distracted. And you almost ran into a minefield that night, when we caught the murderer and for once – for once – it had nothing to do with Moriarty. Just a mad scientist trying to cover his tracks from so long ago. You almost ran straight into a minefield, Sherlock, how stupid can you be?  
And then… Moriarty happened again. He fucked up our lives again. He played with you again, granted this time he seemed to have the advantage. The girl screamed when she saw you. Donovan and Anderson – we all know it was they who planted those poison seeds in Lestrade’s mind. He’d never have considered it otherwise. They said you were a fraud, all of them, but they were wrong, and it took them nearly two years to figure that out. Rich Brook wasn’t real. Moriarty was real. Moriarty was real, and he met you on that rooftop. He… God, Sherlock. He made you jump. He used me to get to you. He used all of us. I stood there and watched you jump, Sherlock, watched you die in front of me, and even if it was all fake, I know there is nothing that I would not do so I never have to endure that kind pain again. I never told you. I never told you, and it ate away at me for two bloody years. I should’ve told you sooner. I doubt it would’ve changed anything, but at least you would’ve known before you died. I would’ve known if you felt the same.  
You interrupted my date with Mary. I hope you remember that one. It was so… well, I can say funny now, it’s been almost three years since then. I saw you, and you weren’t dead, and you let me grieve for two years, and I was so angry, Sherlock, so angry, and I hit you although you were already hurt, but you didn’t say anything. You let me hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you. I never want to hurt you. God, Sherlock. At least you timed it pretty damn perfectly. I was going to propose to Mary that night, but I saw you and I remembered everything, and I couldn’t do it.  
It was nearly a month before I’d let you out of my sight, wasn’t it? I was never more than a room away. You laughed because of it, tried to assure me that you weren’t going anywhere, but you didn’t understand. You didn’t know about the nightmares I had, watching you die again, knowing it’s real this time, knowing there’s nothing I can do to stop it. Watching blood drip from the corner of your mouth or ooze from a bullet wound. You didn’t know how long it had taken me to gather the courage to go into the flat again. It still smelled like you, like your shampoo and disinfectant and the wool of that ridiculous coat mixed with the faintest afterthought of smoke.  
I could only stay there for twelve minutes before I started sobbing right in the middle of the floor. Your violin was out, and there were sheets of music on the desk. You were composing. You never finished, you never have finished. I wonder about it constantly. What was it supposed to sound like? How was it supposed to end? I still don’t know. Mrs. Hudson had to come drag me out of the flat, that day. She made me eat some extra biscuits with my tea because she could see I was losing weight.  
But all that was useless. You were back. You were back, Sherlock, and I saw you, and I remembered the pain of losing you all over again, and I remembered how much I loved you, and I remembered how much you didn’t love me. I didn’t care about any of that. I just wanted to make up the time we’d missed. So we moved back into 221b, and I was happy for the first time in two years. We tried to go back to how it was, we really did. But you had nightmares of whatever you’d gone through while you were away, and you stopped sleeping altogether. You never offered any information, so I didn’t know how to help you, and I didn’t know how to fix it. I felt useless – I was useless, until the night I couldn’t take it anymore, dragged you into your bedroom, and threw blankets on top of you, ordering you to sleep or else I’d kip sedatives from the clinic. Which is extremely illegal, I know, but I was desperate.  
You told me everything, how you tracked them all down, how you had Mycroft’s men finish them off, how some of them captured and beat you. You showed me the scars. On your sides, right along your ribcage, bruises that were still healing. Lashings that looked like whip-marks, pink skin standing out on porcelain.  
‘Don’t pity me,’ you said. ‘I had to do it.’  
‘But how did you do it?’  
‘The sooner Moriarty’s network was eliminated, the sooner I would return here, to Baker Street. Pretty good incentive, John.’  
I didn't have so many nightmares after I moved in those years ago, but when I did, you played your violin into the early hours of the morning. You never said anything about it the next day, never needed to. I thanked you once, but you brushed it off. You didn't do anything, you said. But you did everything. I don't play the violin. So I didn't what to do when you started screaming that night. I lay in bed, listening to you whine in your sleep. I heard you shout out for something - or someone - but I couldn't quite understand you from up there, and then the noise stopped, and then you were crying, quiet sniffles and coughs turning into wracking sobs.  
I didn't realize I was crying until you stopped, and it wasn't you making those choking noises, it was me. It was me because you were hurting. You were hurting, and I didn't know how to help you. I'm a doctor, I fix people, but I didn't know how to fix this.  
'I'm sorry.'  
'For what, John? You didn't do anything.'  
I did nothing. I did nothing, nothing, nothing.  
It happened again the next week. I heard you cry out and the bed creak as you thrashed around. I tiptoed down the stairs and into the kitchen, and I put the kettle on while I waited for you to wake up. It wasn't long before you yelled - and I could hear you this time.  
‘John!’  
I made tea just how I knew you liked it, and I knocked on your bedroom door. You let me in, and I handed you the tea and told you to drink, and sat on the bed and put my hand on your shoulder. You looked at me, sipping your tea. Your eyes were bloodshot and your nose was red and your cheeks were tearstained. It hurt to look at you, so I didn't, I looked away, stared at the wall. Maybe you don’t want to remember that. I wouldn’t blame you.  
'John.'  
'I know, Sherlock. I know. You're okay.'  
And you drank your tea, and I rubbed your shoulder, and you fell asleep curled up with your arms around your knees. I stood to leave, but the movement stirred you awake, and you whispered my name – ‘John,’ – and it was a question, but I didn’t answer, just lay on my back next to you, listening until your breathing evened out, dozing off myself. I woke up and you’d completely turned over, your hair tickling my shoulder, your hand gripping my forearm. I only slept next to you when you had nightmares, but I didn’t mind. I figured out how to fix it.  
Three months later, and the nightmares started to make their appearances less and less frequently. And we had cases, and we got shot at, and we put criminals in jail. We were back to normal, to how it was before you jumped.  
It wasn’t enough or me, and I should’ve known it would happen eventually, but I didn’t, and it surprised both of us, I think. You burnt yourself again, with some chemicals you were using to dissolve a mouse heart. I didn’t understand, and I’m sure you explained it to me a few times, but eventually I just stopped listening. You spilled the flesh-dissolving chemical onto your hand, and you yelled for me, and of course I ran to you. It burnt off the top layer of your skin, your nimble fingers fizzling before our eyes. I remember I was swearing at you as I rubbed the healing ointment on the wound and wrapped it tightly. I remember you asking me why I cared, why it was so important to me that you not hurt yourself. I tried to tell you I was concerned for your health – which I was, believe me – but you wouldn’t settle for that, no, that would be too easy. No one cared about you, you said, no one cared what you did to yourself, but that was before me, wasn’t it, Sherlock? That was before me.  
And then I was kissing you, and you froze, and I thought you were going to pull away, but you didn’t, Sherlock. You didn’t, and there were long fingers in my hair and your breath on my lips and my heart in my throat and your pulse under my fingers and –   
You’re panicking again, Watson. Calm yourself down!  
But you don’t remember, you don’t remember, it’s all gone, gone, gone. You don’t remember me, or us, or even the cases. You don’t remember anything. Not in your head, not in your heart – because I know you have one, Sherlock, you have the biggest heart of any man I know. They say you’re cold, but you’re not, Sherlock, you’re not. You’re warm, warm, warmer than everyone who thinks differently.  
“Sir,” a middle-aged nurse says, standing over me, “are you okay? Do you need assistance?”  
“’m fine. Fine, thank you.”  
Damn it, Watson. You’re a soldier. You’ve killed men yourself, for Christ’s sake. You’ve seen countless men die in front of you. Get yourself together.  
But they weren’t you, Sherlock.  
~*~  
“Dr. Watson,” a voice calls, and I look up. Your doctor is walking towards me, concern written all over his face. “Dr. Watson, are you all right?”  
“Yes, yes,” I say, waving him off. “I am perfectly… okay.”  
“I explained everything to Mr. Holmes. He’s been asking for you, you know. You might want to get back to him before he tries to come find you himself.”  
I chuckle, but it feels empty. I stand and make my way back to your room.   
You’re lying still with your eyes closed, but when I walk in, they snap open.  
“John.”  
“Yeah, Sherlock. What’s going on?”  
“I have a form of amnesia. Retrograde, actually. This is good. It’s hardly ever permanent. It’ll probably last more than a month, but everything will come back to me. Is there anything I should know now?”  
~*~  
I sleep in my old room instead of with you. It hurts every time I go to bed.  
~*~  
You’re in the bathroom when you call out to me. I have to remind myself to knock on the door and not barge right in. You’re standing in front of the mirror, staring at your chest, at the mosaic of scars covering skin.  
“John,” you whisper, “what happened to me?”  
~*~  
“Were we together?”  
“What?”  
“John, I do hate repetition. I’m sure I must have told you that at least once before the whole suicide bomber incident.”  
“…yes, Sherlock. We were.”

“How long, John?”  
“I… um, almost two years now.”  
“How incredibly lucky of me.”  
“Sherlock?”  
Your phone buzzes, you look at it, and you grab your coat.  
“A case, John! Double murder, all drained of blood, but no blood at the scene. Brilliant!”  
~*~  
It takes three and a half months for the memories to start making their way back to you. A full eight months after you were released from the hospital, you can finally remember the last seven years of your life. You remember all the cases, and the Woman, and the Fall - because it does indeed warrant a capital letter. You remember us, even though we’re already together (again) by then.  
You always tell me how lucky you were to have your memory compromised. I always ask you why you think that way. You never answer, but I don’t stop asking until you do.  
“Because, John, I got to fall in love with you twice.”  
If you say anything after that, I can’t understand you, because I’m kissing you and there are long fingers in my hair and your breath on my lips and my heart in my throat and your pulse under my fingers.


End file.
